Just a few weeks ago I agreed to manage a neighbor's lemonade stand, when a stranger made a purchase and proceeded to drink it, only then to confess to me that he had no money. While I am not confrontational by nature, I found it within my duty as a good friend (to the original manager, not the customer) to demand some form of payment, where then he gave me a poem he had found and I was persuaded to make the change with money from my own pocket. While I told my friend about the incident, he took no interest in the poem, so I have kept it and publish it here for your interest.
We like to pretend that
what we see is brand new,
That the tales all
around us are for only a few,
We don’t want to
think of what history has told,
So we progress down a
path two thousand years old.
Oh you can’t go down
the unbeaten trail,
Without some hope that
others before,
Have walked along, and
thus belong,
To a tale and a fate
that we carry once more.
The fires of armies are
burning bright,
They are burning quick
and strong,
But the flame of God is
in that night,
And has smoldered here
all along.
Listen, listen now!
Hear the receding roar?
The tides of God are
turning fair,
Its crimson foam
leaving cleaner there;
The washed shingles of
the world.
